


quick to tell me goodbye

by kirargent



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon Compliant, Enemies, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-23 01:58:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6101071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirargent/pseuds/kirargent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“And Theo doesn't know what's going on—or if he does, he won't tell me.”</p><p>“Well, I don't know, either,” says Malia. “So you can leave now.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	quick to tell me goodbye

**Author's Note:**

> For twfemslashficrec's challenge prompt: hurt/comfort. (or as close as it gets with malia/tracy.)
> 
> idfk what this is honestly

It's past one in the morning when Malia's wilderness-sharp ears catch the soft thumps of footsteps on grass. The sound is outside her house, and coming nearer.

Malia pushes the tangle of sheets from on top of herself and stands, padding silently to the window.

The footsteps have stopped. Malia peers downward, her coyote eyes cutting through the tarry black night like it's no more than dusky dimness.

A girl stands beneath her window, eyes cast up like she knows Malia's watching. She has a hand pressed to her side, a gradient of greenish scales creeping across the skin of one cheek, her teeth sharp as she grimaces.

Malia opens her window. “Tracy,” she says flatly. “What are you doing here?” She speaks quietly: her dad is asleep elsewhere in the house, and she knows Tracy can hear her regardless of volume.

Tracy's lip curls—Malia can't tell if it's pain or spite. “I don't know,” she admits, not sounding apologetic in the least. “Are you gonna let me in?”

Malia doesn't answer.

She turns away from the window and returns to her bed, sitting cross-legged and pulling the sheets up over her lap.

She hears a rough scrabbling sound, several harsh breaths. A head of brown hair appears in her second-story window. Malia doesn't move to help Tracy inside.

Wincing, Tracy swings her legs over the sill, left hand still pressed against her lower abdomen. Malia can see blood beneath her hand, dark in the fabric of her shirt, bright where it coats her pale fingers. She still doesn't move to help.

“This is all very _Romeo and Juliet_ ,” Malia says, pleased with herself for being caught up enough in her English class to make the reference, “but what are you doing here, Tracy?”

Tracy shrugs. Then her face twists like the movement pulled at whatever wound is afflicting her side. She looks at Malia with cold eyes, her mouth a resigned line, lips pressed together. “I'm not healing,” she admits. Her voice has a curious texture, Malia's always thought: like she's speaking at a lower pitch than would be natural for her, a soft grain in the sound. “Well—I am, but not as fast as usual.”

Malia leans back on her hands, eyeing Tracy without letting any sign of interest creep into her expression. “Okay,” she says. “That doesn't explain why you're here.”

Tracy makes a face, shifting her weight where she sits on Malia's windowsill. “I thought you might... know something. Has anything like this ever happened in your pack?”

“Well, since we're all actual werewolves and not someone's sick science experiment,” Malia says, tilting her head to one side, “no.”

Tracy's jaw tightens. She breathes out through her nose. “Fine,” she says.

Malia watches her, eyes narrowing a little. “Why did you think I would help you?” she asks. “We're not friends. You almost stopped us from saving Lydia's life.”

Tracy smiles, the expression not extending beyond her mouth. “Well, I wasn't going to ask _Scott_ ,” she says. “Or Kira. Or Dunbar.” She wrinkles her nose. Malia is faintly amazed that Tracy can pull off such a disgusted expression at the mention of Liam when she herself is sitting in a stranger's bedroom window, bleeding out from a stomach wound.

“And Theo doesn't know what's going on—or if he does, he won't tell me.”

“Well, I don't know, either,” says Malia. “So you can leave now.”

Tracy doesn't move.

Malia rolls her eyes. “You said you're still healing, just slowly?”

Tracy purses her lips. “Yeah.”

Malia shrugs. “Then you should be fine. Don't you have somewhere else to be? Another evil deed to carry out?”

Tracy stares at her calmly. “I don't what this means,” she says. “That I'm not healing as fast. But—whatever Theo did to bring us back? I don't know how long it's going to last.” She takes a breath, glancing away for just a split second. “I'm not looking for your sympathy,” she says, her mouth a cold smile. “I'm just telling you because I know Liam and Hayden are... whatever they are. And Mason cares about Corey. So I thought you should know.”

Malia shifts her weight, settling more comfortably in her bed. The sheets are cool against the bare skin of her legs. “Okay,” she says.

Tracy stares at her for a long minute, and Malia holds her gaze.

Tracy doesn't seem inclined to go anywhere.

She's gonna get blood on the fucking floor.

Malia rolls her eyes. “Take that shirt off,” she says tiredly, gesturing. She shoves away her blankets for the second time tonight and stands, her whole body a dull, tired ache.

“Why?” says Tracy, wary.

“Because I'm getting you a bandage, dumbass. Wait here.” She leaves Tracy in her room, considering only briefly that it's probably a terrible idea to leave her enemy alone in her house. She walks quietly down the hall to the bathroom, flushing the toilet to cover up the sound of the cabinet in case her dad is awake.

Tracy, standing in the middle of Malia's room, biting her lip, looks small, skinny, and scared. Her skin is pale, the wound she's covering with her hand a spot of brightness, her bra a sharply contrasting black. The lack of lighting casts her in dull blue shadows.

Wordlessly, Malia sits her on the bed, soaking up some of the mess of blood with a towel and covering the somewhat cleaner wound with gauze and strips of the soft tape she found in the first aid box in the cabinet. She takes care not to look at Tracy's face; she ignores Tracy's fingers curling in her sheets as she smooths the bandage across the tender injury.

“'Kay,” Malia says. She gets to her feet, throwing the bloodied towel into her trash can. “You're set to travel without getting blood all over.”

Tracy bites her lip silently, not moving from Malia's bed.

Malia rolls her eyes. “You can sleep on the floor, if you want,” she offers. “But don't try anything,” she warns, climbing back into her bed. “I'm stronger than you, and you're injured anyway. I swear I'll kill you.”

Tracy gives her another flat smile that doesn't reach her eyes. “Can I borrow a shirt?” she asks.

"No." Malia tugs up her covers, rolling onto her side. “Go home, Tracy.”

Tracy is still for another moment; then she stands, moving slowly and favoring her side, and folds herself to Malia's floor.

 

She's gone in the morning, leaving just an open window and a few stray drips of blood on Malia's windowsill.

 


End file.
